In 1992, at the age of sixteen, I discovered a Bikini Kill fanzine. This was before gender-inclusive language became a joke, before the Riot Grrrls boomed, before Fugazi's Ian Mackaye produced the fanzine creators' EP and Kathleen Hanna became a punk avatar — recording the anthem "Rebel Girl," the solo album Julie Ruin, and the Le Tigre canon on Universal. At this time, there was nothing like this zine.
In the early '90s, those few dark years before widespread internet access, zines were the vehicle by which creative, angst-filled teenage and twenty-something people talked to each other. Ideas were disseminated via
I carried my zines around proudly, much as Scala brandished her copy of Cunt.
Xeroxed paper tucked into CD covers, stapled and mailed, left in stacks on strategic bookstore floors. In retrospect, it was very Colonial-era, very Poor Richard's Almanac. But it also worked. "Revolution Girl Style Now" was what the choppy, half-scrawled, half-typed, cut-and-paste Bikini Kill zine promised. It attempted to explain what it meant, on a cosmic level, when guys catcalled you; what date rape was; how to handle not being taken seriously because you were a girl and young and angry. I immediately photocopied it for all my friends. That fanzine and those that followed it spread like a neo-feminist virus through New York and, judging by how Kathleen Hanna turned up in Newsweek and stores like Hot Topic started stocking T-shirts with Revolution Girl-Style slogans, the rest of the country. I carried my zines around proudly, much as Scala brandished her copy of Cunt.
A year later, I got an internship at Esquire magazine, and there Tad Friend's 1994 article touted a new crop of activists, who, he claimed, epitomized "Do-Me Feminism." Katie Roiphe, bell hooks and Naomi Woolf were photographed looking dewy and inviting. I read their books, and Susan Faludi's Backlash, but what stuck with me was the fanzines' plea for an internal revolution, a kind of self-audit. What was revolutionary in 1992 was to be a teenage girl told by other teenage girls, "Be a dork, tell your friends you love them." Or "Don't allow the world to make you into a bitter abusive asshole." I believe those zines and bands were symptomatic of, and fuel for, a generation with a fundamentally different take on relationships between men and women.
In an effort to pin down exactly how we're different, I've looked at books like Third Wave Agenda, Her Way, Catching a Wave, Manifesta, No Turning Back and The Fire This Time. Barbara Ehrenreich has said the Third Wave is characterized by anger; Gloria Steinem says it's a "generation of translation and backlash." Third Wave Foundation co-founder Amy Richards said this new generation of feminists sought to "bring to light otherwise subliminal messages that are concealed within a culture that pretends to be ignorant of them." According to Third Wave Agenda, "Third Wave feminists must remain aware of the complex ways that power, oppression and resistance work in a media-saturated global economy."
We became well educated about date rape but sensible enough to laugh at the absurd rigidity of the Antioch Rules.
There's a lot about identity politics in many of these books, about how the personal is political. Indeed, the mid-'90s saw many of us whipped up into a froth of liberal righteousness. In 1995, at my first college, I was as anti-consumerist as Inga Muscio. I became a vegetarian, used a Keeper (what Muscio and others recommend instead of tampons) and feared the Pill (which was okay because I was too angry at the gross abuses of the patriarchy to have a lot of sex). I interrupted a class I had on Christian church history to praise the (in retrospect, pretty loony) radical feminist theologian Mary Daly.
But I became less sanctimonious with time, and I feel that the Third Wave's pendulum, too, quickly swung back to a genuinely progressive middle ground, and that out of all that, a generation of inherently decent, fundamentally feminist adults has emerged.
Hooksexup has a national readership of about a million highly educated twenty- and thirty-somethings, of whom about half are male, half female and very smart about politics and sex. I think growing up post-AIDS, we who were born in or around the '70s had to be more honest and upfront with each other about sex; it made us more equitable, curious and fair. We became well educated about date rape but sensible enough to laugh at the absurd rigidity of the Antioch Rules.
Third Wave women, as I know them, are financially independent. They're happy alone, or they're looking to create families with partners rather than providers. They are politically active, voting, signing petitions, contacting their representatives and being conscious consumers and respectful employers and employees. They enjoy sex, especially thanks to the enthusiastic presence of feminist porn companies, anthologies like Gynomite, sex-toy stores like Good Vibrations and Babeland. They are represented in the media by reasonable, funny feminist writers like Jennifer Baumgardner, Rebecca Traister and Lynn Harris; on TV by Tina Fey and Samantha Bee. Third Wave women are women from all over who have an innate sense of their own value and potential. Through Hooksexup's blog, Scanner, I hear from dozens of women a week from every state in the country who exemplify this spirit. They are self-aware, adventurous and live supportive lives with men and with each other.
